Happy Birthday Daughter

What blog would be complete without the telling of a birth story!  Today is my third daugher's birthday!  On my children's birthday, I always recount the day they were born - orally - but now I get to write it down and post it for everyone to enjoy!

When I was pregnant with this daugher, the first murmurs of the dangers of alcohol while pregnant emerged.  Fine, whatever, no drinking - yes, I had had a little to drink before I knew I was pregnant but what can a couple of glasses of wine do?  The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that those innocent glasses of wine could very well spell the destruction of my baby.  I was always worried about the safety of my little fetuses and in this case, I became obsessed that I had done something wrong and had jeopardized his/her (well it turned out to be a 'her') well being.  So I started an OCD campaign of prayer begging that everything would be okay.   I promised that if the baby were okay, I would name her Monica after Augustine's mother as a testament to the power of perseverance and prayer as demonstrated by the salvation of her son.  I drove not only myself crazy but everyone around me!

As the pregnancy progressed with boring regularity, I began to believe that those few glasses of wine had not rendered my unborn child a victim to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and decided on another name - Margaret Mary.  Then my cousin gave birth to a baby girl and promptly called her Margaret Mary.  Understand the right of first dibs on a name - my cousin had taken this name and it was therefore, off the books!

In the Fall, while about seven months pregnant, I went with my sister to visit my cousins in California.  My aunt had cancer and although the prognosis was good, we thought it might be a good idea to visit - just in case you know.  We had a wonderful time reconnecting with our double first cousins and I remember my uncle providing me with a special stain to take back.  I was into furniture refinishing at the time and was in the process of redoing the old oak dining room table I had salvaged from my parent's garage.  The leaf was missing and it was in poor shape but I loved the Queen Anne curved legs of that table.  I had admired a recently refinished end table at my aunt and uncle's place and when he told me that he had mixed up the stain himself, I was a goner.  I took that stain back and lovingly applied it to the table thinking how appropriate - my father's sister's husband who was also my mother's brother had given me this stain which, when applied, seemed to link us geographically across the miles. 

Mu aunt died on New Year's Eve that year.  My daughter was born a month later.  The day she was born, I had eaten three whistle dogs for lunch - they just seemed so good!  I had also eaten a dinner of boiled corned beef and potatoes - one of my favourites!  When my first labour pain came, I alerted everyone and went home to have a bath and shave my legs, wash my hair - plenty of time right?  Suddenly those whistle dogs and corned beef mouthfuls did not sit so well - up they came and to this day, I cannot even think about eating corned beef.  It went from a few mild pains to urgent in an hour, and I was hustled to St Joseph's hospital in real distress.  My doctor at the time, Dr Joseph Madigan, was battling his own demons and I had been going to his replacement Dr Silang.  He didn't make it in time and a tiny perfect little Asian doctor - Dr Degusi - attended the birth of little Monica.  Dr Silang arrived after the fact to pat my hand and tell me everything was alright and beam at me with his gold capped teeth.

While I was 'recovering' (five blissful days at those times) - Dr Madigan came one afternoon to see me.  I just looked at him and he looked at me and we squeezed each other's hands.  He nodded and bobbed, and smiling, backed out the door.  I knew that some healing had taken place for him at that time.  The special bond of doctor and patient had extended to a deeper more significant level and that he came to see me after the birth of my daughter, was an admission that while he had not exactly been there for me, we had been in together in his thoughts!

Monica was born with a full head of wild black hair.  I sent a picture of her to my brother who was in the Canary Islands at the time (an intervention by my father), to let him know we had chosen him as godfather.  He sent me back a card with $5 dollars in it saying 'congratulations, get her a hair cut'.   Many were outraged when they heard, but I just laughed and thought 'oh that Greg'.

Monica cried for the first three months of her life - colic no doubt - but it never registered or bothered me.  I was happy to carry her around all the time, cooing and murmuring into her little pink ear, as she wailed.  One afternoon while I was trying to listen to Saturday Afternoon at the Met, our downstairs neighbour came up and pounded on the door.  He was a policeman and slept irregular hours.  When I opened the door to his bleary face and red-rimmed eyes, he said, 'Either shut that baby up or turn down the damn radio'.   Monica stirred on my shoulder and stopped crying.  It was over - whatever had caused her discomfort must have been scared away by my distraught neighbour!   I still carried her around all the time but the difference was she was not crying, but cooing and smiling at the world around her.  Happy birthday Monica.

Shooting Trains

You know that dead hour just before dinner is ready and you can all sit down to eat?  The worst hour of the day because you can't go anywhere or do anything but just hang around waiting for everything to cook, bake, boil, rise, finish!  If you do try and sneak out on an errand (leaving someone else to watch things), you find that time speeds up - even a little trip outside can result in burning, scorching, sticking.  But if you stay on guard in the kitchen, then time slows down and you sit there watching the clock that doesn't seem to move, waiting for timers to go off!

Little Claire came up with a perfect activity for this 'hour'.  We sit on the floor in the kitchen, she against the door to the basement, and me up against the little Wiggles table, and shoot her Thomas train engine back and forth to each other across the smooth laminate floor.   Peals of laughter and much shouting - the time flies by.

At first we were content to just shoot the engine but then Claire decided to spice things up by having me send the train off a little plastic train bridge - much more difficult than it sounds.  Getting it to her and in a straight line proved a challenge.  If it derailed or failed to go far enough, she would jump up and get it using Sam's paws (her favourite teddy bear) and bring it to me throwing it down with a clatter and blaming Sam for being so rough.  Then she wanted to include Annie and Clarabel (two box car trains) to the engine.   I tried my best but without much luck.    Claire was ever patient and would sigh and go back to just Thomas as the main event.

In recalling this, it reminded me of when I was young and would spend hours throwing a tennis ball against the school wall.  Like Claire, I would want to increase the challenge - one hand, clap in front, clap in back, spin around and try and catch it before it fell.  The inherent urge to see what I could do and still catch that ball.

What marvellous force resides in a child as she tries to see what she can accomplish - never willing to accept the status quo but always pushing to achieve more - go higher, faster, make it more difficult - delighting in mastering each new self-imposed level.  While this drive has mercifully lessened over the years, I still delight in learning something new, trying a different way to do things, increasing the difficulty, and loving when I get it done!  Never give up - never settle! 

She has a little train table now so no more shooting engines across the floor.  Now we make up stories about the trains as we move them around, me speaking in a terrible British accent as 'Lady' engine, and she, almost overcome with delight, answering me in her 'Thomas' voice.  We have our favourite engines, Thomas for her, and James for me - although she is not particularly impressed with the James engine, she accepts without question, that it is 'Meme's favourite' (he's vain but lots of fun), and it has been added to our 'useful crew'.   That's what love is all about.

Shock and Awe

My sister commented on my new picture - a heart cloud - and her comment motivated me to write about what is on my mind - and why my heart is in the clouds!.  I don't for a minute think that heaven or whatever our next existence will be, is up there in the sky, amidst the clouds, no nothing like that.  Heaven, or whatever is waiting for us, is right beside us.  But I chose that picture because it symbolizes how my heart is in the clouds, with Ben.  This is so hard and I am crying, but I know that I have not been true to my blog because I have not shared what is truly and always on my mind.

February 3 will mark the 3 month anniversary of Ben's departure from this existence where he was with us, to a new existence where he is still with us but in such a different way.  A simple follow up procedure, yes there was something not right, he was in pain and not well.  'Don't worry it's okay, he's strong, this is just a little set back and to be expected.  Yes, I will call everyone - yes, I will let Matthew know - yes, I will invoke the prayer chain/circle - but don't worry, he's going to be fine.'

Update at midnight - it's going well.  I'll just stay up to make sure - call me when the surgery is over.  It might be long.  Don't worry, I've got my book and I'll be up - just call me to let me know everything is okay.  And then the phone call at 2:00 a.m..  "Mom, he died!".  "But you told me the surgery was going well - how can this be?"  "I just want him back!"   Crying together on the phone - sobbing and wailing - no, no, no.  Am I dreaming?  Can this really be happening? 

Out of bed, into the shower, pack up my bag, in the car, driving, stopping to call my sister.  Son in law calling me to tell me to be careful and take it easy - pull over if you have to rest.  Oh dear boy, I am on my way, "Don't worry about me - I am fine!"

Long long drive.  Can't get there fast enough.  Rushing into her house, taking her in my arms, crying together.  Pain of her loss, my loss, our loss.

Ben, I could have spent more time with you.  He knew and smiled at me - put his arms around me - was with me on my way back home when my car broke down.  With me in the car as I waited on the side of the highway in the dark with horrible huge trucks screaming by.  Laughing at the OPP cruiser with the lights flashing that pulled in behind me to wait for CAA.  No judgements, just love love love.

I didn't go to the funeral but stayed with all the grandchildren while the parents attended.  'Ben, you know I would have gone if you wanted me to.'  'Stay here with all the kids - it's better this way.'

My brothers came - seeing them made my heart sing.  Thank you.  They never met Ben but he showed them what they had to do.   My brother on the floor helping her pick out the best pictures for the slide show.  My brother helping with the mass program, getting them printed and then picking up the programs.  My brothers moving through the crowd, talking, shaking hands, talking to me, supporting me and the family.  

My sister said you were going to be a Rock Star!  I didn't question her vision and now I think of you playing Rock Band and Guitar Hero.  Am I too shallow when I ask, have you met Jim Morrison?

Ah, Ben - your Meme should have done more and been better!  Remember when I made up a sign for me?  Waaa waa waa - arms circled and shaking myself.  You laughed and imitated me.  I was afraid of all your apparatus - your breathing tube - your stomach tube - I was always afraid something would come loose and fall out!  You never asked for much and I did read you books and pick you up - but always, I was so afraid that I would do something wrong and you would be hurt!

Ben, remember the Ben doll I made for you when you had to go in to the hospital for your trachea reconstruction?  Remember I dressed it in a little robe and slippers?  It wasn't much and I should have done more, but now I cling to that gesture in the hope that it showed you how much I truly loved you!

Remember when you came to the Thanksgiving Feast we had at Michael and Tonya's?  Remember how you played with the Black and Decker tool set that James gave Charlie?  You loved it and I said 'now we know what to give Ben for Christmas!'    But all we could give you for Christmas were donations in your honour because you had left us!  Do you remember the flowers that Grace cut up and put in little glasses for everyone's place at the table?   Do you remember Charlie running out with a dinosaur to give to Jack when he left?

Ben I know that yours will be the first hand that I will hold when I join everyone on the 'other side'.   You will bring your Meme to you and I am in awe of your power and love!

The Sunroom

Off my parents' bedroom on Llewellyn was a tiny hall that led to a closet area on one side, and to a sunroom which was over our front porch.  This room was unheated and in terrible condition, unused and served merely as storage area.  One summer I had the brilliant idea of turning it into a bedroom!  Tired and fed up with the third floor girls' dormitory, I coerced my younger sister into begging my parents to let us fix it up and use it for the summer.  My mother, distracted with the every day needs of managing ten children, blew us off by saying if we cleaned it up, we could use it.  The next week was Homeric in our resolve to change it into a viable living quarter.

We dragged everything out, cleaned it all up, washed and waxed the wooden floor, somehow managed to find two twin beds, and triumphantly displayed our work to my mother.  She agreed we had kept our end of the bargain and let us use it as a bedroom!  We were allowed to move to the sunroom for the summer.

Sleeping there, with the windows open (they were on all three sides, half way up and could be latched to the ceiling) and trees surrounding it, was an experience I will never forget.  We woke to the sun shining in the windows, the breeze wafting over and around us - it was as if we were in a tree house shut off from everything and in our own little world!

Once summer was over and the cold weather came, our sunroom bedroom turned back into a storage area and my sister and I went back to the third floor.  My recollection is we never used the sunroom as a bedroom again - it didn't matter - we had a dream and we made it happen!

The Women of Llewellyn

Please dear readers, understand that in my description of the Women of Llewellyn, I am describing them as I saw them at the age of six up to fourteen, with the brutal unfeeling eye of a young girl who did not have any patience or appreciation of their life or what they had endured!

Our next door neighbour was Kay Dallimore.  She never raised her voice and always had a slight smile on her face.  She was kind and loved my mother.  I remember her hands with short blunt unpolished nails - the hands of a nurse.  My mother wore nail polish all the time - like her, I paint my nails, and always when I do my nails, I remember my mother.  Later in life, when she was unable to do her own nails, my sisters would put polish on them for her.  I never did but when I would see one of my sisters carefully applying the polish, I would sigh and think how wonderful they were to do this for my mother.  Perhaps one day my daughters will have to paint my nails - although I have told them repeatedly that when I am no longer able to go and get my roots done, or get myself to a salon for a mani/pedi, they have my permission to 'pull the plug'.

Mrs Dallimore had seven children - a small family by my standards.  Her husband Larry, loud, brash and my tormentor!  He would tease me about the church as he was not a Catholic - theirs was a 'mixed marriage'.  He would make jokes about priests and cardinals and my head would spin with visions of him going straight to hell for his blasphemy.  The Dallimore children became close friends of my younger siblings while I, being older, was of an age to be a babysitter! 

Their house was the mirror image of ours but somehow seemed to be better.  They were not as 'poor' as we were so there was always a tinge of jealousy when I thought of them.  They had a little record player that I would use when I babysat - 45s as they were called - and I would play records over and over. 

Across the street was Kay Egerton - I cannot recall how many children they had but I know that they were even poorer than we were.  Her husband was Lou and I picked up my mother's negative opinion of him - the unspoken message was that he did not measure up.  Kay Egerton was fiercely loyal to him and I admired that she never ever complained about him.  They sold their house and moved to Georgetown.  We went to visit them once - they had purchased a farm house and it had flies!  I was obsessed with the flies and couldn't get out of there fast enough!  How shallow I was........

Peg Newton also lived across the street.  She was a 'war bride' and had met and married Bev Newton in England during the war.  She was ontologically scarred by the deprivation she had experienced during the war in Britain.  She would carefully check over each and every  shopping receipt against what they had bought - although I didn't appreciate it at the time, I later came to understand how wise she was.  I recall her saving butter wrappings and using them to grease pans - a tip I later used!  She had a huge scar on her neck from a burst gland - things children notice and fixate on!

Then there was Mrs Hill.  I always thought of their family as being 'hillbillys'.  Where this came from, I have no explanation.  She had long grey hair and it seemed that there was always some crisis in their household - either with the husband or the children - Keith, Roy, and Irene - there may have been another brother but I cannot recall his name. 

There were the Harrisons - the husband was Wilf (I thought the name weird until I realized my own father's middle name was Wilfrid) but I do not recall her name.  She had long red hair which I heard my mother curtly and dismissively mention being due to her husband liking long hair - harrumph!  Two boys - Bobby and Gary - Gary a bully - and Bobby, sweet and gentle.  Gary tormented me and my younger sister and one day, fed up with his constant attacks on us and feeling all righteous, I punched him and miraculously managed to connect with his nose giving him a glorious nose bleed.  His mother came over to complain to my mother, and although she went through the motions of saying how awful it was that her daughter had been so violent, I knew she applauded my bravado when she smiled at me after Mrs Harrison had left.

At the end of our street, on Islington Avenue, was Mrs Mitchell.  I thought of her as Marmy from Little Women and saw her daughter Heather as the embodiment of Beth from same story.  I do not recall her ever saying a word but she exuded a calm and spiritual manner that greatly impressed me. 

These women embodied the spirit of their time.  They cared and nurtured their children and served not only their families, but one another.  I know that every woman on that street would drop whatever they were doing to come to the aid of each other.  Over the years, their kindness and support helped my mother through a very difficult time.  It was with sorrow and a huge sense of loss, that my mother left our home on Llewellyn when the area was rezoned to extend Islington Avenue.

While I had few regrets at moving, I know that I am so lucky to have experienced the community that was Llewellyn 

Where Do Babies Come From?

A little discourse on the the birds and the bees.  One of my younger sisters thought babies came from Martin's Dry Cleaners because my parents had stopped there to pick up some dry cleaning on their way home from the hospital with a new baby.  It was perfectly logical at the time and I wished I could have provided her with a better answer - but talking about where all these babies came from was not a subject with which anyone was comfortable least of all, me.

I recall the horrible day I was taunted by a neighbourhood boy (Jimmy Paul) who said 'your mother is having another baby' and me, hotly denying it until I went home to ask her if she were indeed 'having another baby!'.  She laughed and said 'yes' and I was mortified for the both of us!  My mother wore loose fitting dresses and I was never aware of how she looked, so pregnancies did not register on me.

This same boy's parents (the Pauls) helped out when my mother went to the hospital for the birth.  We went to their place for lunch and had the most wonderful delicacy imaginable - Kraft Dinner!  I had never tasted anything so good - my mother always made her own macaroni and cheese - and when we tasted this packaged combo, neither I, nor my younger brothers and sisters, could imagine why my mother would bother making her own when this obviously superior alternative was available! 

When we moved to Llewellyn, my third youngest brother was brought in a wicker laundry basket as he was so small.  He had been born prematurely and weighed only 5 lbs at birth!  He attained a respectable weight and height as the years passed, but I know my mother always thought he was 'delicate'.  She changed her mind later on when this same brother got into a whole heap load of trouble and was almost expelled from school.  He is now a PhD and teaches at a college in St Paul Minnesota - go figure!

My two youngest brothers are only 11 months apart - 'Irish Twins' is the term - and were treated as 'twins'.  We would celebrate their birthdays together, twice, and I have fond memories of caring for these two little ones.  By caring, I mean I would feed them (one for you - two for me) spoonfuls of baby fruit (apricots were my - I mean their  - favourite), bathe them, and tie them up to the maple tree on the lawn when I had to look after them.

My second youngest brother was a 'pistol' - that's the only way to describe him.  Around three years of age, he drove his little pedal car all the way up to Dundas Street and was brought back home by the police.  My mother peered out of the front window of our house and asked 'Why is there a police car out front?  Where's Mark!'  With a scientific bent, he would conduct experiments like throwing water on hot light bulbs to see if they would burst - they did.  He set fire to cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet - such an inquisitive mind!  He devised a plan to obtain much needed cash by taking coins from the milk bottles that the neighbours left out and purchased dinky cars for himself and his little brother - who could fault such a noble gesture - certainly not me although the neighbours were not as impressed.

My youngest brother, at three months of age, became ill.  My mother just knew there was something wrong and trusting her instincts, called the doctor.  In those days, family practitioners actually made house calls.  Dr McKenna (of the warm hands and kind face) arrived to check out the baby.  Stethoscope out, visually checking my brother, we all waited with baited breath.  He shook his head and said he wasn't sure but he did not want to take any chances so he took our baby brother to the hospital.  The next morning he called my mother to say our little brother had made it through the night!  Made it through the night?  My mother and we older siblings, could not grasp the import of his words.  Sure he had been a little off, but made it through the night?  It turned out that he had a staph infection that had seeped into his chest cavity.  They had to put a 'drain' in to remove the infection from his chest - he still has the scar!

After that my little brother was treated like royalty by my parents - well, actually just my mother.  She would carry him around even when he weighed almost as much as she did - she would piggyback him up the stairs for his nap.  Fair dues to him, he did not become spoiled or demanding but had such a sweet and affable nature that everyone loved him.

He went through a stage where he would talk about his dreams ad nauseum.  I would stagger down to the kitchen in the morning to see him sitting there with my parents recounting his latest dream.  If my mother could have given him a 'coat of many colours' she would have - he was the 'Joseph' of the family.  This is the brother who is now a contemplative monk in Vermont.  I never felt the least bit guilty for the way I treated any of my brothers when they were growing up.  I feel I added to their character and have no remorse for trying to ditch them whenever I could!

After the birth of my youngest brother, my mother had a series of miscarriages - we did not know what they were at the time, and it is only in piecing together the events later in life, that we understood what had happened.  Our neighbour, Mrs Dallimore (a former nurse) came over one time when my mother experienced one of these 'events' and assessing my mother's condition, called an ambulance.  She saved her life but all I remember was 10 little tear stained faces pressed against the window watching the ambulance take our mother away - the flashing lights were pretty cool though!

Priests I have Known

There are only three that I would give a star in the Priestly Hall of Fame - my list is short and brutal!  Fr. Paul Duplessis (a Capuchin from St Philip Neri and chaplain to the French Language school my children attended), Fr Bernie Wilson (a late vocation as it was termed, at the Transfiguration Charismatic Prayer Group I attended with my older sister), and Fr Mongillo (a Dominican priest associated with the Catechises of the Good Shepherd and who won his place in my heart by calling my mother 'Mummy' when he visited us from Rome).  Honourable mention would go to Fr Bud Cullen ( a Basilian and childhood friend of my father), Fr Paul Brennan (who valiantly tried to buck the tide), and Fr Hogan (former pastor at Our Lady of Sorrows and extremely popular with the school yard crowd)  Oh, and I should throw in Bishop Allen - his redeeming quality was having great hair - silver and plentiful - and being nice to my younger sister when she was working part time at the rectory of Our Lady of Sorrows - he gets special mention for not being mean to her!

The rest were products of their upbringing and training at the seminaries of the time!  One pastor of Our Lady of Sorrows would regularly call up parishioners to ask what they were having for dinner and invite himself if the menu was to his taste.  This same priest embarrassed me beyond belief when I introduced my mother-in-law and her sister to him after mass one Sunday, by saying to me 'and you are?'.  I had attended mass regularly at this church for over 25 years!  Thank you very much (Oh my head is so big I can barely fit through the nave) Father!

My sister told me once that priests were merely sheep that had gone around in front of the altar - she denies it now and says I misunderstood what she was trying to say - but I took it the way I wanted.  If we are all 'sheep' in the kingdom, we are all worthy to be behind the altar - female or not!

LENT - Not for the Faint Hearted!

I am about to describe Lent in the 1950s and I am serious when I say it is not for the faint hearted, so dear readers, beware.  Do not read any (further as in more or farther as in down the page?) if you are blissfully unaware of the burden laid upon the tender backs of children by the Church!

Our parochial school revolved around the rites, observances, and liturgy of the Church.  When Lent commenced, the nuns gleefully geared up for six weeks of penance and suffering.  It started with the Ash Wednesday observance of mass and distribution of ashes.  Every Catholic in the world attended mass that day to get their ashes - Remember man that thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return.  We would go to mass and get our ashes and rush to school to compare our crosses!  In later years, the parish priest would come to the school to distribute ashes to those who had not attended mass.  Ashes were a serious business and integral to the weeks that followed - a time to reflect on our unworthiness and to try and repent and make amends!

During Lent our school would have various fund raisers.  The nuns distributed little cardboard boxes that folded out to make a church.  We were to collect money in these boxes, bring them in, and then depending on how much we had raised, we could 'ransom' a little heathen baby in some under privileged place in the world.  One Lent, we had a huge chart on the wall with a picture of a church.  By raising a certain amount of money, we could colour in a brick or a window of this church to be built in some far off country.  My family was barely able to make ends meet so I was never able to accumulate enough money to be able to colour in one of those bricks or windows.  I was over whelmed with a huge sense of disappointment that all those heathen babies were left unbaptized because my parents would not give me money for my little Lent box!

My younger sister and I would trudge out in the dark each morning to attend daily mass.  On occasion, we would stop at the Two Brothers' Restaurant on Bloor Street for a breakfast of white toast and jam - a fitting reward for our diligence in getting to mass every day during Lent.  We would then return home in time to make porridge for breakfast for the rest of the family, and start the coffee for our parents.  We were so small we had to climb up on the counter to reach things in the cupboard.  Speaking of making coffee, Mrs Dallimore our next door neighbour, would send over one of her kids each morning with a coffee cup to be filled from our ever present coffee pot!  We never questioned this practice - it was what it was.

Fridays during Lent meant the Stations of the Cross.  The whole school, led by our resolute and often grim teachers, would head over to the Church for the dreaded 14 stations.  Crammed in there, in my winter gear, hot, sweaty and impatient, all I could think was 'Simon, pick up the damn cross - Veronica, wipe those tears - oh please, let it end'.  Is it any wonder that I spent every Saturday afternoon at confession!  Which segues into......

Saturday Afternoon Confession!  Every Saturday my father would gather up all the children who had made their First Communion, and haul us over to the Church to go to Confession.  I figured out quickly which priest meted out the least amount of penance based on the length of the line outside their confessional.  Surprisingly my main concern was not the accurate tallying of the number of times I had lied, disobeyed my parents, or got angry, but rather if I would remember the Act of Contrition that ended my part of the confession process.   I now wonder what those priest were thinking when listening to the 'confession' of a child.   I recall one priest saying as he dispensed penance and absolution, 'do something nice for your mother'.  Whoa there Father, that's not the deal.  Do something nice for my mother?  Please, just give me my five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers'.

Central Park

Llewellyn was bordered by train tracks on the south, Islington Avenue on the west, and Central Park behind and which stretched around the north and east perimeter of our street.  Central Park was the recreation area of our microcosm and provided unlimited activities for us.  Tennis courts, baseball diamond, swings and slides, skating rink in the winter - everything we could ever ask for!  Islington ended at our street so access to Central Park was either down the dirt hill at the end of Islington, or down through the bush behind our street. 

At the bottom of the hill and beside Central Park, was a swamp area (later cleared to make way for Richview Side Road), which we called the 'Chinese Gardens' for some unknown reason.  This swamp was filled with bull rushes, a variety of pond life, and was a magnet for the boys in the area.  The bull rushes were collected to use as weapons during fights and I remember getting hit with them and having them explode showering me with fibres and seeds.

Central Park had a summer day camp every year and once school was out, we couldn't wait for the camp to open.  We spent every day at this camp doing arts and crafts, playing games, but mainly watching in awe as our camp counsellors worked on their tans with baby oil!  They seemed like gods to me.  I recall Brian Shore, bleached blond hair and muscled body, who looked like a Beach Boy (before the Beach Boys ever existed) and who became the object of my affection that summer.  Another counsellor was Dave Dryden (brother of the legendary Ken Dryden).  I marvelled that these gods would walk among us and interact with mere mortals - and mortal children at that!

The end of summer camp was marked by a Penny Carnival!  We had booths for games and to sell things we collected from our neighbours!  The carnival culminated with a parade where we all got to dress up and march around the neighbourhood!  One summer parade, I wore a long green velvet gown (obtained from Chrissy Crawford's dress up trunk) and had my hair down (usually in braids to avoid cootees).  I felt like Guinevere and cast longing glances at my Lancelot (a male counsellor of course).

The park has been renamed Thomas Riley Park but it will always be Central Park to me!

The Family Chain of Responsibility

When I say 'Responsibility' I mean there was no 'Authority'.  My parents hit upon a particularly brilliant (for them) idea where the older members of the family were assigned responsibility for the younger ones!  So, around the age of 8, I was made responsible for my second younger brother.  It might not have been so bad had not the luck of the draw linked me with a particularly troublesome. accident prone sibling. 

Since I was responsible for him, not only did I have to feed, bathe, change and look after him, I was also the 'go to person' if he got in trouble - and the trouble he got into surpassed all others in the family!  When the city decided to put up new telephone poles, he managed to fall head first down one of the post holes which was filled with water after a prolonged rainfall!  Miraculously (his Guardian Angel no doubt) a neighbour  saw what had happened, ran out and was able to grab his legs, but being very slight, she could only lie beside the hole holding him above the water!  Another neighbour, Mr Mitchell (big and strong) luckily came home in time to rescue both by hauling my brother out of the hole!

He managed to open the little window and crawl out onto the roof of the third floor girls' bedroom and proceed to throw all our clothes out on the lawn!  He got stuck in the 'quick sand' mud behind our school and was pulled out by the elderly caretaker Mr Cade, losing his socks, shoes, and boots in the process!

All of these transgressions were laid at my door!  Where was I when all of this happened!  Excuses were never accepted and I would dart hateful glances at my brother when we were BOTH punished for his crimes!  It is with a deep and abiding love that I now admit to having a special bond with this brother - the tie has never been broken!  Inspite of all I endured because of him, I see him and in my heart is a maternal connection that pulses strong and real - oh you naughty boy!

Llewellyn as Microcosm

The online dictionary that I checked, defines microcosm as 'a little world; a world in miniature' and that is exactly what Llewellyn was.  The street was a cul de sac with houses in a semi-circle.  As a result, we were able to play outside on the street (and on everyone's lawns) without fear as there were few cars. 

On occasion, we would each stand on our own lawn and declare it the country of our ancestry with fierce pride and not allow anyone else to trespass.  Our lawn was Ireland - and across the street was England with the Newtons - and so on around the circle.   This would only last a few minutes until someone brought out their skipping rope and all the girls would immediately cry 'never ender' and race for position.  We had special skipping songs that we chanted while waiting to jump in and join the intricate 'double-dutch' game.  Another favourite game was Yogi which entailed a long line of elastics (rubber bands) joined together, that you had to jump over in a variety of difficult ways - one foot, hands behind back, and so on.  The boys would run off to play baseball or road hockey - or fight each other - a popular pass time much to annoyance of the parents of the 'losers'.

This was a not an elite or wealthy neighbourhood, and most were poor and struggled hard to provide for their families.  I was perpetually jealous of the single child families (Chrissy Crawford who had more toys than the rest of the street combined, and Marlene Burke who was called Little Miss Sunshine by her parents because they said she looked like the girl on the Wonder Bread wrapper).   There was a sense of security knowing that the parents were keeping an eye on all of us and would discipline any of us if necessary.  Parents were omnipotent in those days and no one would dare to disobey our own or any other parent - unless of course it was worth the risk!

There were so many children on the street that there was always someone to play with - or get in trouble with.  Little cliques would form and then change or melt away.  My recollection was that everyone was my friend (to a greater or lesser degree).  There were some older siblings on the street who were not part of the gang that regularly played together.  They had a certain aura of mystery around them - we did not know what they actually did all day long while we were out playing.   They were, however, always available to step in and settle disputes if necessary but that was looked down upon as being unfair.  Once Bernie Burley threatened to call his older brother Wayne to beat me up if I didn't stop teasing him.   I had a huge crush on Wayne so the thought appealed to me.  I chased Bernie and he actually climbed a spindly little tree on their lawn and started crying (he was older and weighed much more than I did so I had no remorse for terrorizing him).  Instead of the hoped for appearance of Wayne, it was his mother who came to his rescue shouting 'Bernard, get down out of that tree'.  Bernard?  She calls him Bernard?  He never lived it down and when anyone wanted to tease him, all they had to say was 'Oh Bernard" and he would immediately start crying!

In the summer when we were all out of school, we played from dawn to dusk - literally.  My younger brother described it well by saying that each day seemed like three - there was the 'morning' - and the 'afternoon' - and then the 'evening' - and each seemed to last for hours and hours.  We had races, we skipped, we played hide and seek, we built forts, we explored the 'bush'  (a stretch of uncleared land that ran behind our street) to find sticks (handy for fights), or just to jump back and forth over the little creek at the bottom of the bush.

In winter, we skated down the hill to the ice rink in Central Park - or had snow ball fights behind snow forts we made, that went on for days stopped only by the need for lunch, or dinner, or dry mitts.  My mother had placed a dish drainer on the radiator in the kitchen where we put our mitts and hats to dry and which fell off regularly with a huge clatter.   There were no ski  jackets in those days and we all had to wear wool felt coats with hoods - even the boys.  Our winter gear would quickly become soaked along with our mittens and hats.  I had chapped wrists for most of the winter but it never stopped me from participating in the Homeric snow ball fights!

As one of the older children in my family, I was forced to care for the younger ones.  This severely cramped my activities and I was always trying to figure out ways to avoid having to look after my younger brother and sisters.  I would tie my younger brothers to the big maple tree on our lawn with their harnesses (yes, kids wore harnesses in those days!) where they would dutifully sit while I played with my friends.  It wasn't as bad as it sounds - there were other younger children who would sit with them or play games - and their harnesses were pretty long - I swear!

Moving to Llewellyn

When I was six, we moved from a tiny bungalow on Whalley Drive.   That house was in a new development which had no trees, no sidewalks, and our driveway had huge gravel stones instead of pavement (it was murder on bare feet).   My only fond memory of this house was the basement - my father had put up a swing!  We would have picnics down there with a blanket and sandwiches our mother made for us.  After these picnic lunches, my older sister would get us to march around the basement singing 'we're marching to New Brunswick'.  I have no clue what the significance was of this song, but only recall we would all dutifully march around singing it - for hours!  Oh, and the time my younger brother was hanging from the glass towel rack in the bathroom and sustained serious cuts when it (of course) broke.  He had to go to the hospital and we were all scared but secretly (at least I was) fascinated with this accident.

If my mother hated Whalley Drive (and she did - the isolation was terrible for her after living with her family on St Joseph Street), she loathed Llewellyn.  She told me later that she cried for the first three days after the move!  I have no recollection of her misery as I was too busy exploring our new home.  The house was the original farm house from the time when the whole area was farm land, and had been split to make two residences side by side.   We were on one side and the Dallimores lived on the other.

In an effort to make the house more palatable for my mother, my father had a friend of his come in and 'redo the kitchen' and the 'third floor'.    The kitchen was painted a shiny lime green colour including the ceiling-high cupboards and was truly awful.  Even at my young age, I knew a kitchen shouldn't look like this one!  

Later an automatic washer and dryer were crammed in.  I have to give my Dad credit for purchasing these as, prior to that, my mother used a wringer washer and hung all the laundry on a very long clothesline that ran the length of our backyard - summer and winter!  As she was doing about 8 - 9 loads of laundry a day, as poor as we were, having these automatic appliances was not a luxury but a necessity.  She continued to hang bedding outside for many years claiming it made them smell so nice.   She would then iron everything including dish towels, socks, underwear - everything!  When I was old enough to iron (around 8), I made a deal with her - I would help with the ironing but refused to iron anything other than shirts and blouses.  Anything that could be folded right off the line, or straight out of the dryer, did not need ironing in my opinion.  Strangely, for she was pretty strict, she agreed to these conditions and even she stopped ironing those items as well!

The rest of the main floor had a large dining room and a small living room.  There was a front and a back porch - the back porch was where we got all our deliveries - the milkman (Jimmy Morrison from Borden's - a huge blond viking of a man who never seemed to age and who had a moving company on the side that we continued to use in the future), the beer man (cases delivered regularly for my mother), and the bread man who would appear daily with a basket of fresh breads and buns from which to choose (he was missing the middle two fingers on the hand he used to carry the basket - I was both impressed and horrified at the same time).  He also had a horse-drawn truck that transported his bakery goods - we spent many happy hours tormenting that poor old horse and trying to make it eat rotten apples!

The second floor had three bedrooms.  On our first day of exploring this new (for us) house, I told my older sister that the master bedroom was actually mine.  She believed me and was so upset that I should have scored such a large room, that she immediately sought out my mother to appeal the injustice of this.  I got in trouble for (a) lying; (b) making my sister cry; and (c) distracting my mother from her busy day of unpacking!

The third floor (attic) became the 'girls' dormitory'.  A floor was put in along with an assortment of double beds.  I slept with whichever sister I wasn't fighting with at the time.  My oldest sister had a bedroom on the second floor shared with a crib for the current toddler.  The middle bedroom had bunk beds for the boys, and the master bedroom had my parents' bed and the cradle for the current infant.  As the toddler and infant got older, they were relegated to the crib in my older sister's room, the boys' room, or up to the 'third floor' with the girls - with the newest infant then occupying the cradle in my parents' room

When my father's sister came from the hospital to convalesce with us after a near-death experience due to a leg infection, she stayed in my older sister's room.  My sister came up to the cramped quarters of the  'third floor'.  My aunt's son slept in the bunk room.  They stayed with us for three months until my aunt was able to return home and take care of herself.  There must have been at least 8 or 9 children at this time!  How did my mother ever do it?

Part of the recovery program that my mother instituted for my aunt included time outside  on a rickety old chaise longue so she could benefit from the sun's healing rays.  I remember rubbing her damaged leg with olive oil to help the healing process.  I would light and start her cigarettes for her as she was too weak to do this for herself.  It was the least I could do to help her get better!

Her husband (my uncle - another Jim) would appear periodically to check on his wife and son.  My parents, when pressed by me for details about this absentee husband, would say cryptically that he was a 'rod and gun' type and then exchange meaningful glances that were completely lost on me.  He would compare his trucker tan with our pale limbs and laugh triumphantly that his was better.  I was then determined to best him by sitting out and trying to acquire a tan!  All I got was severely sunburned and had to endure the mortification of ceding superiority to him for being able to tan without burning.  Some victory!

When my aunt finally left (along with our spoiled cousin), things returned to a relative normalcy and my older sister got her bedroom back.  When I look back on those days, I am forced (for I rarely give her credit) to applaud my mother for stepping up and taking in my aunt.   The question still remains - why the hell didn't her husband take care of her - and where were her other brothers and sisters during this time of need?

The Four Humours

My sister says I am archetypal - I choose to see this as a compliment.  Her observation resulted from our exchange today when I told her - 'remember the four humours - choleric, sanguine, melancholy, and phelgmatic?  Whatever happened to them?'

I see these ancient Greek humours as a key to how we interact and behave.  Melancholy is so much nicer than depression.  Choleric makes a bad temper so much more acceptable.  My older sister (on her deathbed) said to me that she wished she had lived her life with more passion (sanguine) but then she wouldn't have been who she was. 

I know I fluctuate between these humours - some days I am sanguine - passionate for some cause.  Often phlegmatic - whatever.............  Able to conjur up choleric as happened when I took my car in for a simple oil change and they tried to scare me into an expensive repair!  And melancholy when I feel sorry for myself and just want to have a good old pity party.

Reducing our emotions to these four simple components allows us to accept the ebb and flow of our volatile natures.  I don't think it is a bad thing.

Talkers

I like to talk - any wonder that I started a blog?  I talk, talk , talk - from my early childhood to present day I can think of nothing better than to talk.  Not everyone shared my love for chatting away.  A favourite family story is about the time my father set me on the side of the road because I refused to stop talking in the car.

My father used to take us for 'mystery tours' in the car usually on Sunday afternoons which I later realized was an attempt to give my poor mother a break from all the kids.  On one of these 'tours', when we were all bundled into the car, sans seat belts, and taking up any available space like the console between the driver and passenger seat, and the small space under the rear window, my father apparently fed up with my constant chatter, threatened me that if I did not 'shut up', he was going to leave me on the side of the road.  Dear readers, you know the outcome!  Of course I did not stop and true to his word, he pulled over to the side of the road and left me there, my arms firmly crossed on my chest with a defiant look on my face.  He pulled away only to stop a few yards ahead and then backed up.  He said the rest of the children were crying so loudly, he could not stand it.  Amazingly my sibling saved me from being left there.  I am sure they regretted this as I went on to terrorize them over the course of our shared childhood!

My daughter complained that her daughter talked all the time in the car and it drove her crazy - yet when I drive with my granddaughter, I embrace her constant chatter!  She talks about other cars that we pass - whether they are happy or sad (not really sure what her criteria is).  She wants the window open - no close the window.  Open the sunroof - no close the sunroof.  We talk about how great it would be if Cranky the Crane (a Thomas the Train character) could pick my car up and place us ahead of the long red light.  We talk about what would happen if I left the sunroof open and it rained!  Would Ollie the Orca (from Trader Joe's) splash out and eat me!  I see myself in my granddaughter and delight in our verbal exchange!

Another Shocking Tale

Here's a story that gave me nightmares for a long time!  As Sis told it (and verified by my great uncle Rufort), in the early 1930s, their aunt Mary was driving with four of their relatives in some sort of huge luxury convertible, up the steep incline near Grenadier Pond in High Park (Toronto).  Aunt Mary was only 4' 9" according to Sis.  The car (a standard) stalled!  Aunt Mary was unable to restart the car and due to her height (as this was an integral part of the story), she was not able to control it, and the car rolled inexorably back down RIGHT INTO Grenadier pond!  'Grenadier Pond has no bottom' my Aunt Sis would say in sepulchuric tones.  They all drowned with the exception of the aforementioned great uncle Rufort!    Trust me when I say, I will never skate on Grenadier Pond.

Even though I avoided Grenadier Pond, High Park has some wonderful memories for me.  My Dad would take us to see the poor old Buffaloes at the zoo there where we fed the beasts stale bread crusts.  We would also feed the swans until the time my younger brother was charged by an irate one - we were all too afraid after that.

Another favourite place in High Park (but this was much later) was Colborne Lodge.  The historical society has restored it to its former glory and I enjoyed many Sundays there going through the rooms and imagining myself as Elizabeth Bennett waiting for Mr Darcy.  My father in a surprising burst of generosity, bought me a limited edition lithograph of Colborne Lodge which I still have.  When I look at it, I remember those Sundays with my father.  Thanks Dad.

One of Sis's Best

On one occasion when my aunt was visiting, she talked about the time their father inherited $10,000.  Now this was in the 1920s so I am going to calculate that it was the equivalent of inheriting around a million dollars.  The story unfolds that Mr H blew the entire inheritance in ONE YEAR!  He bought my mother and aunt full length fur coats (they were around 13 and 15 at the time).  As he was afflicted with 'The Drink', the rest I gather went to entertaining his cronies at the local pub. 

Amazingly my aunt and mother did not seem particularly upset at this behaviour and shrugged it off with a sort of 'oh that Wascally Wabbit' and 'what can you expect from our Dad' attitude.  Hell, why didn't he buy them a house?   They rented their whole lives and I know from other stories that their life was one of hardship and penury.  My sister said simply, it was because he was an alcoholic and nothing ever make sense when one is trapped in this addiction.

From what I heard from my aunt and sometimes from my mother, it seems their mother  would often up and move when my grandfather went on one of his 'fishing trips' - and not tell him.  My mother, in a rare disclosure of her early life, recounted sitting on a window seat in one of their new places and seeing her father outside, she called out to him and that was how he found out where they were!

I am sure he was an abusive husband but for my mother, he was her touchstone and rock!  A fearful and timid child, she said she would listen at night for the sound of his lighter as he lit a cigarette and then she felt safe knowing he was there, awake, and able to protect her from the night demons that tormented her and made my mother an insomniac for most of her life.

And speaking of smoking in bed, this was a habit that my mother inherited - as did my father.  I can still remember the scorch marks on the hardwood floor of their bedroom from the cigarettes they dropped and left burning.  It is a miracle that we were not all roasted in our beds and a tribute to our Guardian Angels (and further proof of their existence) that we survived!

A Rose By Any Other Name

My name has been a burden my whole life but given the choice to change it, I would not - I believe too much of who I am today is linked to the struggles associated with my name.  I have only met one other Cecily - a person told me his wife was named Cecily but as he was trying to sell me something at the time, I had a hard time accepting he was being truthful!

The story goes that my parents chose my name and that of my older sister, from the Canon on the Mass.  Saints Cecilia and Felicitas.  They anglicized it to Cecily (and Felicity).  My aunt Sis was so smitten with this concept that she gave her daughter the middle name of Perpetua.

Here's an example of the challenge I face with my name. 

Phone Call 
Me - Hi, this is Cecily Clark.......
Other Person - Stephanie?
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Oh, Leslie.....
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Like the Actress?
Me - No, Cecily - not, Cicely......
Other Person - How do you spell it?

Person calls back - Hi, can I speak to Stephanie?
Me - Speaking.....

Having a lisp doesn't help.  And when I was younger, I also had a stammer - double whammy.  So when I started at my second school and was asked on my first day to stand up and tell everyone my name, I panicked and said 'Rosie'.  All went well until the Principal came into the class and asked to speak to Cecily Coulter.  My teacher replied, 'Oh I don't have a Cecily but I do have a Rosie'.  BUSTED!

Aunt Sis - The Storyteller

I often joke with my cousin about being switched in the cabbage patch at birth.  She identified so strongly with my mother that she even used the same dish pattern (Pink Vista), while both of us agree that I am more like her mother.   Neither of us saw our mothers the same way and it is funny and enlightening to hear each other's side of the story.

My aunt's name was Mary but we all (as my mother did) called her Sis.  She was larger than life with a self confidence that shone forth - she could do anything - well, anything she chose to do.  An expert seamstress, a quick and talented cook, flower arranger, fashion consultant, and storyteller, she filled our house with her laugh, her perfume, and her conversation whenever she came to visit.

My parents rarely talked about their upbringing and my mother, almost never, so it was Sis who filled in the pieces for us.  Born and raised in Toronto, my mother's family lived on St Joseph street in a duplex that they all shared even after their marriages.   While it must have been difficult for the parents, we cousins all grew up in this extended family and developed bonds that have survived geographical separation (and even death).  We delighted in calling ourselves 'double cousins' since my mother's brother married my father's sister.   When the duplex was demolished to make room for a new seminary, the family split up and moved apart.  The repercussions were devastating on all of us especially for my mother who I believed suffered the most at being separated from her family.

Sis was the consummate storyteller and I could listen to her for hours as she recounted tale after tale about their (to me bizarre) upbringing, always punctuating her stories with her soft infectious chuckle.  I was acutely aware of my mother's unease when Sis went off on one of her trips down memory lane - I know that they did not share the same perspective on their early life.  But my hunger for this family history overcame my guilt at my mother's obvious discomfort.   I had a deep need to know more about our family history and was frustrated that I could never get my mother to talk.  I remember asking her about the day I was born and all she said was that it was the hottest day of August and that I was late - not quite what I was hoping to hear.  Now if I had asked Sis about each of her children's birth, I would have had every detail from the moment of conception to present day.

When my children were growing up, a family tradition I started was to tell them on their birthday all about the day they were born - from the first labour pain to the joyous moment of holding them in my arms.  Even as they grew older, I continued to recount their birth story on each and every birthday - sometimes to the discomfort of their spouses.  I want my children to know about their history.

I believe my love of storytelling is inherited from Aunt Sis - wherever it came from, I am thankful for this gift.  When I visit with my grandchildren, they demand to hear stories - about their parents, about their aunts and uncles, about their cousins, and even about me.  Most of the stories have been told so many times that now my grandchildren are able to fill in when I purposely pause - 'she was soaked from the top of her head to the bottom of her shoes!'  (A particularly favourite story about my daughter who jumped into the pond at James Garden one hot Sunday afternoon).

This blog is an effort to capture these stories and to give my family their history and in doing so, I will always be grateful to Aunt Sis - my first Storyteller!

Angels

How many readers (other than my siblings) know there are nine levels or orders of Angels?  From highest to lowest:
Seraphim
Cherubim
Thrones
Dominations
Virtues
Powers
Principalities
Archangels
Angels (includes Guardian Angels)

According to tradition, only Archangels and Angels interact with humans.  Although I can't wait to meet the rest (what's a Throne like?), I have interacted with Angels on a number of wonderful occasions.  The most significant time occurred when I was driving my older sister home from Princess Margaret hospital after one of her visits regarding her cancer.  We were driving in the middle lane of the Gardiner Expressway when the car on my right crossed into my lane.  It was so sudden and unexpected that I did not have time to react - not even to brake.

The other car passed through the front of my car as if it were water.  After pausing in shock for a few seconds, I said to my sister, 'Did you see that?  Did that really happen?'  'Yes' she said quietly.  We did not say anything else the rest of the ride home and never talked about what had happened.  I know that our Guardian Angels had stepped in and averted that disaster - why, I don't know - it's a mystery.

Another time I was shopping at Ikea and came upon the dinette set that I had wanted (but couldn't afford), reduced in the 'damaged' section of the store.  The box had been broken open and there were parts scattered around the floor.  I dragged everything together but was unable to lift the box into the cart when a man came up and asked if he could help me.  Not only did he put the box into my cart, he came with me through the checkout and then loaded it in my car.  I turned to him and said 'Thank you so much - you're an Angel'.  And then he replied, 'Yes I am but few people recognize me'  and he walked off.    True story........

Sin and Healing

I believe in Christ as Therapist - and that he does help us heal ourselves.  When the bible talks about Christ giving the apostles the ability to 'loose their sins - and bind their sins', it means to me that Christ understood that for some, the burden of what they had done, or the bad things that happened to them, was often difficult or impossible to let go.  He recognized that a concrete experience where a person could lay bare their soul was psychologically necessary and would make it easier to feel at peace and connected to his divine love.  So if it helps to talk about it, Christ wanted someone to be there to 'loose the sin (burden)' - but if the person couldn't or wasn't ready to let it go, then Christ let them 'bind their sin' meaning, that's okay, hold on to that burden if you want, but it would be whole lot easier if you just backed it up to that dumpster over there and dropped it in.

It's not about sin and subsequent punishment/penance but rather the divine Therapist knowing how much we suffer from what we do to ourselves or what the world has done, and offering us healing when our hearts are broken.   Wish the Church taught that. 

Virtue and Personality

It has taken me a long time to realize that so much of our spirituality is linked to our personality type.  I do not mean to deny our 'free will' to choose how we respond or behave in certain situations, but if we can step back and be kind to ourselves instead of beating ourselves up, we will see that our 'natures' or 'personality-types' have a powerful influence over our life vision, our morality and our spirituality.

Take the example of forgiveness:  we agree it is good to be able to forgive - not for the other party, but for ourselves.  Hanging on to a hurt or nursing a grudge rarely affects the other person but can and does damage us through stress (sometimes guilt) and often depression.  So why is it hard for some people to forgive and not for others (like me).  It seems to me that it is much easier for an extrovert to forgive than an introvert.  Certain personality types (extroverts) have it easier in their social interactions by processing externally (instantly) and not internalizing or dwelling on things.  For an introvert who absorbs everything and processes internally over long periods, the real or perceived wrong gets stuck firmly in the psyche where it festers and grows causing pain and suffering. 

Is an extrovert more virtuous because they are able to forgive and the introvert less because forgiveness does not come so easily?  The answer should be - 'no, of course not' - but this has not been the teaching of the Church regarding sin and virtue.  We were taught that we all must follow the same path towards 'goodness' regardless of the effort and that the more effort involved, the more virtuous we become.  Are we culpable for 'sins' over which we have little or limited control - or to be considered 'virtuous' when for some it is merely a function of their nature or personality?

Epiphany and My Sister's Death

The Epiphany was a feast I used to like.  In 1999 my younger sister died on this day and I have never felt the same about this feast since.  She had been ill with a bad cold and cough and one of my other sisters had suggested that we and one of my brothers should get together to celebrate the day with her and to ensure that she was recovering.  It had been snowing and the driving was awful as I left work.  After parking my car, I got out and started to walk towards her apartment building only to fall into a snow bank.  I laughed out loud at my clumsiness and got up and brushed myself off.  In the background I could hear a siren from an ambulance or fire truck but it did not register as anything other than an anonymous siren.

When I reached her apartment, I saw the door was open.  I entered and the scene that met my eyes is forever etched on my mind.  My brother was performing CPR on my sister.  He looked up at me with desperation in his eyes and I just sank to the floor.  My legs had turned to butter ( a phrase one of my brothers used to describe how he felt when he was charged by a dog).   He yelled at me to take care of Pip, the family dog that my sister had inherited after my mother's death.   Pip, never a good dog, was barking wildly and racing about the apartment.

The siren I had heard was the response team coming to my brother's 911 call.  They arrived shortly after I did and one of the emergency responders helped me up and put his forehead against mine and said 'if you want to be here, you must be strong and control yourself''.    His calm tone and firm manner calmed me down enough to grab Pip and place her in the bedroom.  The team worked on my sister while I just stood there helpless in horror.

My other sister arrived and I ran out to meet her before she entered the apartment.  I grabbed her and said 'if you want to be here you must be strong and control yourself'.   The rest is pretty much a blur.

The irony of her death on the Epiphany is not lost on me.  She was 'Queen of the Epiphany' celebrations and always made a 'Bean Cake' ensuring that one of my children would find the bean and be King or Queen for the day!  It was a family tradition for us to put a shoe out to be filled by the Magi as they passed by on their way to the stable in Bethlehem - and it was a tradition that I carried on with my own family.  I know it wasn't one of the Kings that took her on that particular day but my older sister who had died just three months earlier.  One of my younger sisters told me that she believed we are given a choice at the point of death - that we are allowed to choose if we will accept it.  I believe my older sister asked her if she wished to be with her again, and she said 'yes'.  Now I believe she thinks that perhaps she could have carried on but she has accepted her decision and is happy to be with all of us in a different way - part of the Circle of Women that have gone before us but are still with us in a very real and special way and always ready to help and support when called upon.

I miss her terribly but recognize that this is selfish.  She was my best friend and always, always there for me.  She traveled with me, accompanying me on my big 'turning 50' road trip out West where we met my daughter.  She traveled with me down to see our Aunt in St Louis when I decided it might be fun to hook up with our cousins there.  She never questioned these trips, just good-heartedly agreed to be my companion!

I wrote about the wind chimes I bought that brought the voices of my sisters back to me.  In the tinkling of those chimes, I hear their laughter and know they are ever with me.

Are We Like Sheep?

The chorus from Handel's Messiah is full of how we stray and get lost and separated etc. and while glorious music, the message is too sombre to do other than listen to the majesty of the piece.  But it brings up one of my favourite DEEP THOUGHTS.  I recall talking to my brother the monk on one of our visits to the monastery and saying to him 'does God expect us to be anything more than a sheep?'.   Being intuitive and sharp, he knew exactly what I meant.  He smiled, shrugged and then explained that his monastic life of prayer and meditation was at one end of a continuum balancing the opposite end which while not 'pure evil' was definitely 'bad'.   He did not say those exact words but I followed his meaning.

Ironically this brother has embraced the concept that one can LOVE their way to 'heaven' unlike most men who believe one has to THINK their way to salvation.   It is perhaps mental laziness on my part to refuse to engage in philosophical discussions regarding how one must behave according to/perform/conform to the doctrines of the Church.  In my heart, where my God resides, I just KNOW that all he wants for us is to accept and be open to the peace, joy, and love that is there for us.  Free, no strings, just pick up the gifts little lamb.

I will never forget hearing the phrase (from some nun or priest very early in my formative years) that the two worst sins were PRESUMPTION and DESPAIR.   In other words, don't hope and don't get depressed thinking of your worthlessness and your pending banishment to hell.  That is a tough order.  What is the fine line between hope and presumption and if we cannot hope (presume) then how can we avoid despair?

If we are like the sheep the Good Shepherd cares for, do we not presume that we will be fed and taken care of, and if we stray or get lost and despair of our situation, does the Shepherd not look for us and when he finds us, does he not call out in relief and joy that he has found us?  'Cecily, I was looking everywhere for you - don't scare me like that!'

Blog Design

I wanted to include a daily quote section but am not sure if the one I chose will work.  If anyone can help me figure out how to eliminate the other links on it, your help would be appreciated.

I LOVE the Dalai Lama - a true symbol of love and peace. 

My Sister

January 6 is the anniversary of my younger sister's death.  Not only was she my sister, she was my best friend (I've read this comment from others many times but for me it is so TRUE).  She did my roots for me, made pastries and desserts whenever I needed them (I never gave her credit - 'oh yes, isn't this pie marvelous - I used an old family recipe'), took road trips with me and I miss her every day. 

I had published a story about her but then decided it was too intimate and got up last night and deleted it.  I have many more stories about her that I will be sharing - like the time we both almost drowned when she made us laugh while we were swimming by commenting 'fun, eh bandit'.

She died just three months after our oldest sister.  I am convinvced our oldest sister took her to be with her again because she (as all of us) knew my younger sister just could not bear the loss and life as it had become.  Shortly after the deaths of my sisters, I went out to Vancouver to visit my daughter and I found a wind chime.  My sisters spoke to me through those chimes and when I hear them now, I know they are with me saying 'we love you!'.

Recently Read

Watch by Robert J. Sawyer set in Waterloo ON.  This sequel to Awake does not measure up.  Includes interesting information on the Perimeter Institute founded and funded by RIM owner Mike Lazaridis.   Also includes an American view of living in Canada such as the Tim Hortons (apostrophe omitted as per their signs) phenomenon.  More than a little annoying as Sawyer lives in Mississauga and his tongue-in-cheek snipes at our Canadian cultural and political differences to the States seems a bit traitorous.

The Orange Peril

They called us Dirty Catholics and we, likewise, thought of them as Dirty Protestants although never actually admitting it!  I always envied them - with their art and music classes and Sunday School.  I so wanted to go to Sunday School instead of Mass!  While I was not able to wrangle an invite to Sunday School, I did sign myself up for Saturday art classes at Islington Elementary which worked until they demanded payment and I was forced to slink out of class.  I was 8 at the time.

We walked to school every day - and back home for lunch - and then back to school and home again.  We had to go through Central Park which was behind Etobicoke Collegiate - a Protestant school!  We were terrorized by gangs of Protestant Youths who would chase us and throw stones (snow balls in winter) and if they caught us, they beat us up!  Yes the Order of the Orange was thriving in those days.  My poor younger sister had a particular bully who targeted her - Paul Woods - he was big and mean and ugly.  I am sorry to say I never went to her rescue - I was too concerned with making my own escape!

We had to cross over a set of railroad tracks on Montgomery Road, the dangers of which, we were blissfully unaware until one of the Scanlons was killed at this crossing.  I secretly felt it was his own fault as the neighbourhood boys delighted in walking the rails, putting pennies on the track in the hope of derailing one - my own brothers included. 

Walking to and fro from school meant appropriate clothing.  God how I loathed our winter snow pants, buckle boots, jackets and hats/mitts.  Once Julian Empy grabbed my hat and threw it on the little river that ran through Central Park.  It was winter and the river was only slightly frozen.  Rather than face the wrath of my mother if I returned home without my hat, I inched myself out on the precarious ice to retrieve it crying the whole time.  I was so afraid I wet my pants.  Whether my tormentor Julian knew this or not, he seemed to have a change of heart, and dashed out ahead of me and retrieved my hat.  'Here's your stupid hat' he said and threw it at me.  I think he had a crush on me.

As soon as the weather permitted (or even if it didn't), we eagerly discarded our winter clothes and donned our TRENCH COATS.  These were so cool - kind of military so I had to MARCH to school rather than just walk.  We all had black oxfords to wear and sans buckle boots, the freedom from the buckle boots was so exhilarating, I felt like I was floating.

Second School

Half-way through my first grade, we moved to Etobicoke and I began my long and checkered career at Our Lady of Sorrows.  Sr Rosella was now my teacher - she and my younger sister are still friends.  I was unable to read when I started as were most of the other children in the class.  We had cardboard alphabet letters which we kept in cigarette tins supplied by our parents.  Mine was a Black Cat tin - the current brand my mother smoked.  I dropped the tin on the floor one day and it made such a racket that I thought I might have to leave again! 

Miraculously one day all the letters made sense and I was ABLE TO READ.  I became a different person - a full person - and from that moment on, I spent most of my time with smuggled books on my lap reading instead of paying attention in class.  As a result, I was branded as a trouble maker - bold and impudent one teacher called me.  I got the strap in every grade for real or presumed misdemeanours.  I actually did not mind as I was usually up there with one or more of the 'bad boys' getting the strap along with them.  Only problem was, trouble at school meant trouble at home - double punishment.  If my parents found out I had been strapped at school, I got it at home too!  It was a full time job intimidating the younger kids not to rat me out.

My sixth grade teacher was Miss Bissette.  She looked like Olive Oyl.  She was cross and strict all the time.  Then half way through the year, she GOT MARRIED and changed completely.  She was all giggly and laughy - none of us could understand why.  I do understand now.  Previously she had lived with the formidable grade 8 teacher, Miss Cassin.  For some reason I thought they were sisters.  After Miss Bissette became Mrs. Bolger, she did not live with Miss Cassin anymore and Miss Cassin became even meaner and more formidable.  I dreaded the prospect of grade 8 as her's was the only class.

I had a crush on Kevin Karner in grade 6.  He injured his eye playing hockey and I cried when I saw his poor eye - I was so worried he would go blind.  Whatever happened to you Kevin?  Are you a big CEO somewhere?  How is your eye?

First School

I started at Christ the King school (adjacent to Church of same name) and my teacher was Miss Fritini.  I went on the bus from our Whalley Drive home to the school on the Lakeshore.  My older sister had to take me and we were both embarrassed at this arrangement.  I have few memories of my time at CTK other than the day I went to get my lunch from the cloakroom at the back of the classroom to discover someone had taken my lunch box.  There was only one left which I had to take.  When I opened it, there was a whole tomato in it.  I was so shaken by this that I had to put the lunch box back and leave.  At age six, I walked the 1 mile home crossing major intersections and navigating other perils and arrived only to have my mother cry out in alarm!  My poor sister for some reason bore the brunt of blame when clearly it was not her fault.  I tried to explain to everyone that seeing that tomato in the lunch box was so traumatic I had no choice but to leave and go home (presumably for a 'real' lunch).

The pastor of the Church frequented our school and of course we were all in awe of him.  I had long braids and he teased me about them saying he would cut them off and use them for paint brushes (charming).  He later became one of the first successful heart transplant recipients in Toronto.

First Memories

Just call me Connie Willis as I time travel back to the 1950s and 60s to describe for fellow sufferers and my children what it was like growing up in Toronto as a Catholic. 

My first memory is getting ready to go to Sunday mass.  This was the only time my mother ever wore perfume and I can still recall the scent of Chanel's Cuir de Russie on my mother's coat and gloves.  And the wearing of hats!   With five girls to prepare for attending church, my parents had to ensure a wide assortment of suitable head coverings.  They ranged from winter knitted hats (I had one with multi-coloured fake braids on it that I loved), to summer straw ones that picked at my scalp, to a variety of veils, little white or black doilies that perched on my head secured with bobby pins, to hat headbands that included one with a dramatic sweep of fake pheasant feathers which curled provocatively around my face (awesome) and another with black velvet and pearls.  

I remember sneaking into church (hatless) on my way home from school to make a 'visit' during Lent as one could earn extra indulgences (more on that later) for a church visit especially if you used holy water to bless yourself, when I was accosted by an older woman who scolded me and slapped a kleenex on my head hissing 'you must cover your head'.  I was so mortified and scared that I immediately ran out of the church (dunking my hand in the holy water on the way so I could cross myself until all the holy water evaporated - additional indulgences earned which I now needed to make up for the Not Wearing a Hat in Church sin).  The Wearing of Hats in Church mysteriously ended in the late 60s which I assumed was a result of Vatican II and Pope John's desire for 'fresh air' to be let in.  Overnight women no longer wore hats in church or pretty much anywhere.   Strangely, no one spoke about it - we all just stopped wearing hats - I know I was afraid to question it fearing I would be responsible for exposing this underground movement and bringing down the wrath of Rome along with the hat requirement being reinstituted.

God as World Wide Web

Perhaps you were wondering how God could have been sitting in my kitchen drinking coffee with me when there is a such a desperate need for him throughout the rest of the world.  Perhaps you thought I was selfish to think he is here just for me.  I think of him as the world wide web of spirituality and love.  Millions of people access the web and it is there for each and every one of them - any time, any where.  Like the web, with God there is no judgment - just free access to communication and information.

Do you think computer operating systems are like religious institutions?  Is the Church like Microsoft allowing limited access to God/web and only after paying a huge price?   

Why a Blog?

Religion like technology should help us but as WE ALL KNOW more often both disappoint.  Being egocentric by nature and choice, I refuse to accept this and as a New Year's resolution, I decided to use the technology available and to start a blog where I can share and discuss tips, thoughts, opinions, and ideas with friends and family.

The idea for the blog started during Christmas dinner preparations with my daughter.  We were tying up the turkey legs with a piece of string salvaged from the garbade when my daughter asked me how I knew how to tie the legs.  I told her that was how Mummy did it and I remember watching her.  My daughter said I had to write down all these things 'for posterity'.

Then on New Year's day while Jesus and I were having coffee at the kitchen table, he asked me what I was going to do today and I said 'start a blog'.  He just nodded and took a sip of coffee.  I couldn't tell if he thought it was a good idea or not until I realized that I had to ensure MEANING in the blog along with the day-to-day chatter.  I looked at him and said 'I'm going to write about religion - and my life'.   I want to share the good news that we are loved and that God is right there beside us in the mess and tribulations of our life wanting to bring us to joy and peace.  My friend Ed said Religion is the Root of all Evil.  I knew what he meant but I said that it was religious institutions that have corrupted the truth.  It is my hope that this blog will provide an opportunity to counteract the damage done.   I could tell Jesus was pleased.  Yup, that's who my God is. 

I am blessed to belong to a family of brainiacs who are much smarter than I am and my hope is to share some of their wisdom and knowledge about DEEP THINGS and stay connected at the same time.  A win/win situation.

The blog will also be a forum to pass along memories and traditions to my children.  They are also much smarter and all very witty and funny.  I am looking forward to their posts!